


Check

by TrashyNyx



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Explicit Language, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28724250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashyNyx/pseuds/TrashyNyx
Summary: Even with just one bad move, you can lose your Queen.
Relationships: Fahrenheit & John Hancock (Fallout)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Check

**Author's Note:**

> What started as a Whumptober prompt-fill is now this meeparoni monster.
> 
> This plays off the ending of the quest "The Big Dig" in which the player sides with Bobbi as well as the hidden relationship marker that Fahrenheit is Hancock's daughter.
> 
> So, prepare for the feels!

He wasn’t an idiot; Hancock knew something was awry from the moment he caught sight of that smooth-skinned Vaultie walking straight to Bobbi’s place. He came damn close to grinding the cigarette between his teeth to shreds. 

So, when the ground beneath Goodneighbor started to rumble, and Fahrenheit burst into his office with wild, pressing eyes, Hancock couldn’t say he was surprised, not even as she revealed the two’s apparent plot to loot _his_ strongroom. What with their slinking in-and-out of that back alleyway with such purpose, always doing a double-take over their shoulders -- not to mention the pair of workers that had straight high-tailed it out of there earlier -- the morons might as well have left him a signed letter of intent on his desk. Part of him couldn’t help but be somewhat impressed they even had the _balls_ to carry through with it.

Regardless, Hancock was _pissed off_. He had taken both of their straggling asses in, given them a home, lavished them in classic Goodneighbor hospitality… and for what? So they could _steal_ from _him_?

He growled, his sharp teeth quickly rendering the cigarette useless.

“Don’t worry, boss. I’ll take care of it.” Fahrenheit had long ago readied her heated minigun, shifting her weight back and forth, just _waiting_ for the word. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap, steel eyes firmly set on Hancock in anticipation. 

After taking a moment to push his thumbs into his eyes, he lifted his head up and gave her a devious -- downright murderous -- smirk. “Go give ‘em hell, Fahr.”

She didn’t need any other affirmation before promptly gathering a posse of Neighborhood Watch and marching out of Goodneighbor’s door. Hancock watched them through the window, popped a healthy handful of Mentats in his mouth. With a heavy sigh, he resolved to at least get _some_ work done while he waited. 

Typing at the terminal at least kept his hands busy, though his leg bounced anxiously to make up for it. He chuckled at just the thought of the shit Fahr would be giving him right now for “ _actually_ doing some _mayoral_ duties for a change” in that smartass tone of hers. Apple didn’t fall far, he supposed.

Hancock was fully engrossed in the _lovely_ task of logging the Rail’s earnings when a frantic knocking on the door frame caused him to jump out of his chair with a sharp yelp. He grumbled a curse under his breath. “ _Shit_ … Yeah?”

In stumbled one of the Watch -- was it Timmy… no, Tommy -- with suit disheveled, sweat drenching his brow, and eyes darting in panic. Hancock immediately stood, a brow raising in question. Tommy was one of the boys to leave with Fahrenheit… So, where was _she_? Or the rest of the crew, for that matter. His midnight-black eyes cast a brooding darkness, only more piercing with the help of the dense shadows of his tricorn. When he turned to face the frightened Watchman, the snap of the tattered tails of Hancock’s frock coat was as violent as his stare, and it made the poor guy flinch.

“M-Mayor, they just… They opened fire on us. Hell, it was a madhouse in there. We-We needed help, and I just… I just ran. I’m sorry, Mayor, I-I-I didn’t know what else to do!”

Hancock couldn’t even bring himself to be angry at the guy; how hypocritical of him would _that_ be? When he stood face-to-face with Tommy, he offered nothing but a gentle grip on one shoulder and his trademark lop-sided smirk -- that tell-tale mayoral charm. “Hey, ya at least had the right mind to get help, yeah?” As he continued, Hancock readied himself: stuffed various drugs from the table in his pockets, checked his shotgun before strapping it to his waist, and of course, straightened the lapels of his coat and the hat on his head. 

“No worries, brother. I’ll go check on ‘em -- would do me good to get rough ‘n dirty with the ‘Wealth again, anyhow. You go on down to the Rail…”

As he left the State House, Hancock hollered over his shoulder, “... and tell Chuck your drinks are on me tonight.”

\---

The trek to the Depot was relatively mundane, the typical sneaking past mutant camps and skirting past packs of ferals. However, when he arrived, Hancock was hit with a feeling that shit wasn’t right. He swiftly reloaded his shotgun with a _snap_. As he entered his password into the terminal, his hands started to shake, and when the door began to open, he wasted no time to slunk in with eyes down his gun’s barrel. 

Though with just a simple glance around, Hancock’s stomach dropped.

Streaks of crimson red decorated the floor, the steel containers dotting the place, the walls, the stairs… damn near _everywhere_ , it seemed. The open area reeked of copper; Hancock could taste it on his tongue. With slow, cautious steps, he walked around and investigated. 

His Watch littered the ground, their bodies pelted by way too many bullets. A goddamn _bloodbath_. He couldn’t bring himself to look them in the face; some of those boys had been by his side from the beginning. And now, here they lay, shot dead in his strongroom.

Hancock actively searched -- _hoped_ \-- for the corpses of those fucking traitors, so when he did find them, a sadistic joy filled his heart. He scoffed down at them, drove the soles of his boots in their faces for good measure. Served them fucking right. Hancock sighed, allowing himself to be somewhat relieved. Of course, Fahr would have no trouble with--

He stopped himself abruptly, eyes widening in trepidation. It suddenly felt as if an anvil had dropped into his gut. A wave of nausea overcame him as his chest started to heave, and his gaze and body darted around without any particular purpose, just feverishly searching for something… _anything_. Where the _fuck_ was Fahr? 

Eventually, he collapsed back against a train car with a resounding _thud_. Defeat weighed heavily in his heart and his eyes stung as tears threatened to escape. Hancock bit what was left of his lower lip, tried his damn best to curb his sobs. Maybe he was just overreacting; maybe she was on her way back, and he didn’t notice. 

And then, he heard a noise so faint, he almost missed it. A… grunt of some kind, pained and weak. 

At the possibility of _someone_ being alive, Hancock wasted no time following sound. The whole way, his heart was pounding, rattling his ribs and leaping into his throat -- especially when he realized the acoustic trail was also leading him down a blood trail. He soon found himself underneath the stairs, and those tears now flowed freely down his cheeks. 

Hancock’s shotgun loudly clattered as it fell to the ground. Any energy he had left evaporated as fast as his heart was beating. He heavily sank to his knees, his entire body succumbing to the shivers and tremors of the rasping sobs starting to plague him.

Fahrenheit sat leaned against her prized Ashmaker, her front coated in her own blood. The way she was slumped made Hancock’s voice catch in his throat. “F-Fuck… _Fahr_ …”

His eyes caught the slightest twitch of her fingers, and that alone was enough for him to scooch closer, ever-so-gently cradling her in his arms. When she coughed, Hancock wiped away the thin line of blood that escaped her lips with the pad of his thumb. There was a strange warmth in his heart seeing how peaceful she looked -- the frown lines and creased brows were smoothed out, and with her eyes closed, she just looked asleep. 

“They… won’t be a problem… boss.”

“I-I knew you could do it… my little spitfire.” 

And then, Fahrenheit’s eyes opened, the orbs now a washed out, glassy steel, harboring a rare softness, and Hancock was honestly taken aback when he saw tears seep from them. The sight only made his own sorrow that much more unbearable. His sobs started to claw out from his scratchy throat, sounding all the more strangled and broken, his tears plopping on Fahrenheit’s armor in an erratic rhythm. He tightened his embrace around her and held her closer, as if to protect her from the inevitable.

She gripped one of his sleeves laxly, and when she spoke, her voice was so uncharacteristically fragile, Hancock’s stomach churned. “I’m… I’m sorry… Dad.”

That marked the moment Hancock broke _entirely_. In the blink of an eye, he wasn’t the hardened, charismatic, rough-and-tumble no-nonsense mayor of Goodneighbor. 

No. As he sat there with Fahrenheit’s bloodied and weakened body in his arms, peppering tender kisses to her forehead in some feeble attempt to make her pain fade away, his body trembling, ugly wails of pure anguish bellowing off the walls and tears cascading like waterfalls from his eyes…

No. In that moment, Hancock was a grieving father.

“Hush, Fahr… N-No, no, you did good… _so_ f-fucking good,” he spurted out between hiccups and sobs. He nestled his face into her ember hair and started to gently rock them back and forth. He tried not to focus on her breathing and how it had started to slow or on how rigid and heavy her body was becoming.

It was all, of course, to no avail, and Hancock’s composure continued to shatter.

“It-It’s okay… Dad’s here… _Dad’s here_ …”

Her body shuddered with wet, pained sobs, and she curled in even closer to him. He didn’t know when, but at some point, he had started to hum Fahr’s (secretly) favorite tune “Easy Living” as they swayed, and though it was choked and broken, he heard her lightly sigh, as if the melody gave her a much-needed peace. 

“I… I love you… Dad…”

“Love you, too… _Fuck_ , I l-love you s-so much… my little spitfire…”

Hancock’s only indication of just how long he sat there was when Fahrenheit’s grip on his sleeve finally loosened, and her body fell limp in his arms. He had stopped hearing his own screams, whether from his throat giving out or simply just tuning it out, and he had taken to holding her tight against him without any care for the blood staining his clothes. 

He continued to rock, continued to hum, continued to whisper choked ‘I love you’s and pet her hair.

It wasn’t until he felt a hand on his shoulder that Hancock was (somewhat) brought back to present.

“C’mon, Mayor… Let’s get you home.” He recognized that boyish voice -- the young merc, MacCready. There were others with him, judging by the shuffling footsteps behind them. “The boys can… take care of her. If… If that’s okay.”

Hancock couldn’t even work up the energy to respond. Hell, he couldn’t even _think_ , and no amount of Mentats would help with that. He stayed there, cemented in place, arms wrapped tight around his daughter’s body, shoulders shuddering with breathless sobs. 

MacCready’s words seemed to take hours to process, and Hancock could only nod weakly in defeat. His entire body felt like puddy, and as some Watchmen cautiously pried his hands away, his gaze landed on her face again. 

She had her mother’s hair and eyes, no doubt, but everything else was a spitting image of John. Hell, even those fucking freckles every McDonough had… somehow, she was able to pull those off.

He didn’t put up any sort of fight as MacCready helped him up to his feet. Fahrenheit’s body was gone relatively quickly; by the time Hancock was fully upright, the Watchmen had already started digging a grave. 

Without anything more than a final glance around the strongroom, Hancock turned on his heels, flipping his knife idly, face shrouded in the shadows of his tricorn -- now as dark as his soul.

\---

MacCready soon became painfully aware of just how _not_ okay Mayor Hancock was.

The trek back to Goodneighbor was arduous… and honestly terrifying. Hancock walked with stiff shoulders and head slouched, his usually care-free saunter gone. Without any pause or forethought, he confronted every feral, mutant, and raider with the same brutal viciousness, unabashedly slitting throats and stabbing clear through arteries before throwing the corpses aside like meat bags. Midnight eyes glazed over as they perpetually leaked tears and ragged lips in a thin, expressionless line, MacCready found himself fearing the mayor had snapped -- maybe even started going feral.

When they all finally arrived at Goodneighbor’s door, MacCready _almost_ didn’t stop the relieved expletive that teased his lips.

The town’s energy immediately shifted upon their entry, as if everyone knew something wasn’t right. Though, perhaps their mayor standing there covered in blood with an abnormally hardened face and hurting eyes helped with their assumptions. 

Most telling of all, probably, was the fact Fahrenheit was nowhere to be seen.

Drifters said nothing, parting for Hancock as he walked solemnly to the State House. From the doorway of her store, Daisy watched with a frown, and when she looked to MacCready with that silent question -- ‘So… where _is_ she?’ -- he could only just shake his head. A simple enough answer. 

He saw her start to tear up herself, something MacCready didn’t even know the rough pre-War woman even did, and he -- or anyone else -- made no attempt to stop her when she followed Hancock.

Shi -- _shoot_ , he needed a drink.

\---

Despite knowing what she _should_ expect, when Daisy entered Hancock’s office, she still recoiled. He had just returned and already empty drug containers dotted the tables and floor. Hancock, slouched on one of the torn couches with a half-empty liquor bottle, wore an expression that sent shivers up her spine -- pained, dark, and distant. She could see the dried streaks down his cheeks, the faint twitches of his lips. 

“Hancock.”

Nothing. Not a word, not a move. He just sat, absentmindedly picking at the cuticles of his nails or the lip of the bottle, staring through the window that was as shattered as his heart. 

It was a risk, but Daisy took it and walked over, sitting beside Hancock on the couch. With a gentle, motherly touch, she placed a hand on one of his knees, giving it a ghost of a reassuring squeeze. It seemed to be enough to at least jolt Hancock from his brooding stupor, if only for a moment, and when he finally spoke, the words were slurred with inebriation and emotion.

“She’s… gone, Daisy…” He paused to take a shaky breath and a long swig, and whether he was aware of it or not, stray tears started to roll from his eyes again. “I… I should’ve been there for her. Should’ve been a _father_ … like she needed me to be. I-I should’ve… should’ve…”

Daisy could only watch as Hancock finally broke. Aggressive sobs racked his body, his eyes scrunched and teeth gritted as his hoarse cries echoed through the State House. She slowly took the bottle away, placing it on the table, and then simply offered an arm, wrapping it around his shoulders when he collapsed against her, and rubbed his back while hushing him soothingly. 

“She loved you so much, Hancock,” Daisy said, her tone soft and sincere. Sympathetic tears of her own rolled down her face. “Believe me when I say that, to her, you were the _best_ father she could’ve asked for. You did what her mother didn’t: the best you could, _for her_. And Fahrenheit knew that.”

And, though he found solace in the words, Hancock only continued to melt in her arms, his hands gripping Daisy’s blazer weakly as he sobbed and mumbled into her shirt.

Later, when she took his garb and washed the blood from it, Daisy couldn’t help but break herself. Not just for Fahrenheit, but also for Hancock -- the young, selfless John who did nothing but his best… Who didn’t deserve to feel _this_ type of loss.

If there was one thing she learned in her many years, it was that life was _so_ fucking unfair.

\---

It took some time before Hancock had finally regained his faculties -- at least, enough to be able to appear ‘normal.’ Drifters still glanced at him with sympathetic eyes, the brave ones taking the initiative to offer him some feel-good from their personal stashes, but none uttered a word otherwise. 

After a handful more days passed, it seemed as though Goodneighbor was back to normal. Hancock had resumed his usual shtick -- ridiculous and impromptu parties in the Rail, giving Daisy and Kleo a hard time as he attempted to work his ‘king of the zombies’ charm, and of course, wandering about and helping any of his people that needed it. 

And, when Hancock rallied everyone for one of his invigorating and hopeful speeches, completed with an unifying chant of ‘of the people, for the people’, they _knew_ their mayor was back. That the town was safe and as it should be once again.

From his balcony, Hancock watched his town be reignited with energy, a small, cocked smirk on his face. Normally, he would be twirling his knife expertly through his fingers as he people-watched, popping some Mentats for some heightened perspective.

On this day, however, the knife was still tucked in the waistband of his pants. A small piece of sculpted ivory took its place. Hancock let his fingers run along the ridges and intricate details with a delicate, loving touch.

The Queen. The almighty protector of the King -- always having his back, seeing what he can’t. One of the most powerful pieces on the chessboard. A piece so integral to the game that losing it made victory seem implausible, unobtainable.

And sometimes, her sacrifice is the only thing to protect the King from checkmate.

“Well… What move do I make now, Fahr?”


End file.
